[ He was never going to say "Please," but then Vecchio would have been disappointed if he had. Turn it off was more than close enough; at least it was a request, which was almost an admission of the fact that he couldn't take it. But wasn't that what torture was? Still, it came close enough to begging that - considering he had a finger up the guy's ass, and Ray had by no means woken up this morning thinking the day was going to go south so quickly - he was inclined to take a certain amount of pity, at least where it was admissible to do so.
But he stayed, worked in a second finger beside the first, and withdrew it as quickly as he'd pushed it inside, bringing his hand to the ring to press the switch down on the vibrate function. He was swollen and hard, that lovely length of him, purpling, and now trapped that way for as long as Armando deigned. Even without the vibration it was probably enough to drive Ray loopy, but that was good too. He could build on the pleasure, make him delirious with it, make it matter less if only because he couldn't think through it all. If he did it right, the entire process would blur together; the cocaine would help with that, twist it into some sort of unreal nightmare.
Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky, but he should have to live with this; with every single crisp second. It was his penitence.
Fuck, he was coming down already. He could fix that, but first he pressed his first finger back inside again, as though he were starting the process from scratch, but with the way Ray was resisting it was almost like doing exactly that. Muscles clamped around him like vices, because fighting back that way was all Ray had to do, all he needed to focus on. It made his blunt fingernails dig in more than necessary, but every time they did Ray just snarled again, and what could he say? "Relax, let me do you up the ass"? Those two things didn't really go hand in hand.
So he kept fighting this battle which neither of them were equipped to fight, and after managing to get his second finger back in there and giving it a real good go, Vecchio gave up again, slipping his fingers free and propping his hands under Ray's thighs as he leant into his belly. He'd dropped white powder there, and most of it was still all over him, even though some of it was ruined by blood. Still, there was enough that he could press his tongue into the cracks, lapping up enough of it to bring his heart back to racing, sharpen his senses, lower his inhibitions. He needed the boost for the sake of his self esteem, but then of course he'd been doing this for months. It always seemed to take a little more, and it was hard to fight the urge to let it when there wasn't enough in the world for him to spend Armando's money on as it was.
He'd given up with his fingers, but that didn't stop the onslaught. Now that he had surrendered to the idea that loosening Ray up the good old fashioned way was the sexual equivalent of leading a horse to water and forcing it to drink, he admitted that the other methods, the props he'd been more or less dismissing out of some urge to somehow be less impersonal, were probably in fact vital. He'd been stupid, even inconsiderate, to think otherwise, drawing this out like they were two teenagers bumping uglies in the back of a car when that wasn't what this was about at all.
So in went the soft, fingerwidth steel of the spreader, coated with lubricant, and maybe he hadn't warmed it up, but he applied the requisite pressure little by little, his chin on Ray's stomach, his other hand testing the gap as he stretched metal apart. When there was enough room, he fed four of the string of beads into him, smallest first, before pulling the stretcher free, letting muscle snap back down. He could feel it, lube slick fingers sliding against bare skin, sensing the stretch around the bead just underneath the surface. God--god, he was fucked up to find that hot. He pressed up, fed in the next slippery bead slowly, then drew it back out again, panting against the wet trails he'd licked on Ray's belly as he did it. He didn't think Ray would mind, or even notice, how much this was driving him crazy. And he looked back up. Imposter. And felt the most inappropriate flare of superiority rising in his chest. ]
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But he stayed, worked in a second finger beside the first, and withdrew it as quickly as he'd pushed it inside, bringing his hand to the ring to press the switch down on the vibrate function. He was swollen and hard, that lovely length of him, purpling, and now trapped that way for as long as Armando deigned. Even without the vibration it was probably enough to drive Ray loopy, but that was good too. He could build on the pleasure, make him delirious with it, make it matter less if only because he couldn't think through it all. If he did it right, the entire process would blur together; the cocaine would help with that, twist it into some sort of unreal nightmare.
Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky, but he should have to live with this; with every single crisp second. It was his penitence.
Fuck, he was coming down already. He could fix that, but first he pressed his first finger back inside again, as though he were starting the process from scratch, but with the way Ray was resisting it was almost like doing exactly that. Muscles clamped around him like vices, because fighting back that way was all Ray had to do, all he needed to focus on. It made his blunt fingernails dig in more than necessary, but every time they did Ray just snarled again, and what could he say? "Relax, let me do you up the ass"? Those two things didn't really go hand in hand.
So he kept fighting this battle which neither of them were equipped to fight, and after managing to get his second finger back in there and giving it a real good go, Vecchio gave up again, slipping his fingers free and propping his hands under Ray's thighs as he leant into his belly. He'd dropped white powder there, and most of it was still all over him, even though some of it was ruined by blood. Still, there was enough that he could press his tongue into the cracks, lapping up enough of it to bring his heart back to racing, sharpen his senses, lower his inhibitions. He needed the boost for the sake of his self esteem, but then of course he'd been doing this for months. It always seemed to take a little more, and it was hard to fight the urge to let it when there wasn't enough in the world for him to spend Armando's money on as it was.
He'd given up with his fingers, but that didn't stop the onslaught. Now that he had surrendered to the idea that loosening Ray up the good old fashioned way was the sexual equivalent of leading a horse to water and forcing it to drink, he admitted that the other methods, the props he'd been more or less dismissing out of some urge to somehow be less impersonal, were probably in fact vital. He'd been stupid, even inconsiderate, to think otherwise, drawing this out like they were two teenagers bumping uglies in the back of a car when that wasn't what this was about at all.
So in went the soft, fingerwidth steel of the spreader, coated with lubricant, and maybe he hadn't warmed it up, but he applied the requisite pressure little by little, his chin on Ray's stomach, his other hand testing the gap as he stretched metal apart. When there was enough room, he fed four of the string of beads into him, smallest first, before pulling the stretcher free, letting muscle snap back down. He could feel it, lube slick fingers sliding against bare skin, sensing the stretch around the bead just underneath the surface. God--god, he was fucked up to find that hot. He pressed up, fed in the next slippery bead slowly, then drew it back out again, panting against the wet trails he'd licked on Ray's belly as he did it. He didn't think Ray would mind, or even notice, how much this was driving him crazy. And he looked back up. Imposter. And felt the most inappropriate flare of superiority rising in his chest. ]